Five Times John Screwed Up and One Time He Didn't
by DisenchantedDestroya
Summary: A series in six parts of short one-shots about John and Sam's relationship. With, naturally, a healthy dose of big brother Dean. Exactly what it says on the tin. Please review! :)
1. May 14th, 1983

**May 14th, 1983**

Little Sammy has only been breathing for a mere twelve days but he's already as much a part of the Winchester family as John or Mary or Dean are.

Dean spends most of his time at his brother's side and all of it keeping Sammy within eye sight. This surprises John; he'd have thought the kid would have gotten bored of a baby by now. He looks forward to reminding his boys of this in their teenage years when they start going at each other's throats.

Mary, of course, adores her new son. Her face exudes motherly adulation whenever anyone so much as mention's her baby boy's name. She's the one who changes all of the dirty diapers, prepares all of the bottles (although Dean _insists _on doing most of the feeding himself) and is always the one to get Sam to sleep at night.

Thus leaving John in rather a troublesome predicament at this moment in time. It's ten o'clock at night, Dean is sound-o upstairs and Mary is on a girl's night out, her first time away from her new baby. Meaning the task of putting Sammy to bed has been left to John.

Well, he thinks, it can't be too hard.

He's sat on the couch with Sam cradled tight to his chest, his muscular arms stiff from the stillness of holding the baby for a prolonged period. His son looks to be almost asleep as it is so John stands, the baby clutched safely against him, and starts the treacherous journey up the stairs and to the nursery. He goes slowly up the stairs and along the landing, scared of the groaning floorboards waking Sammy. They don't though, and they're stood outside the nursery in a handful of moments.

He stops in the doorway and smiles proudly to himself; he worked so damn hard to get this room perfect for Sam's arrival.

Just as he's about to place the impossibly small human in the crib a pair of tiny, moss-coloured eyes blink up at him, full of unspoken curiosity. John's sure this kid is going to grow up to be some kind of genius.

"Hey there, Sammy." John whispers, ever mindful of Dean sleeping just down the hallway. "You ready to catch some Zs, little buddy?"

Sam gurgles out a yawn in response and John chuckles. He doesn't see what Mary complains about; putting this kid to bed is child's play.

He carefully places the baby down in the crib and pulls his hands away, those bright little eyes trained intently on him like police searchlights. He takes a moment to wonder how _he_ managed to create something so fragile, so perfect, so _heavenly_.

And then, all hell breaks loose.

Sammy's face screws up like tissues paper in a fist, turning raw-meat red in the process. His hands form miniscule but tight fists and his little legs kick out vigorously in time with his tantrum. His mouth pops open and he decides that now is the perfect time to demonstrate that, as little as he is, he sure as hell has a _massive_ pair of lungs on him.

Just _great_.

The sound is grating and vicious, biting at John's brain like a pack of rabid wolves. He doesn't understand it at all, which only serves to make his frustration worsen; Sammy's not hurt, was yawning and smiling a moment ago, yet here he is acting like a fucking banshee.

"Woah, Sammy, quiet down will ya?" As expected, John gets no response. Unsure of what to do in this situation, his Marines training taught him nothing about handling screaming babies, he tries a different tack. "It's alright little buddy, Daddy's here. Mommy will be home soon."

At the mention of Mary Sam stops, looks around, catches sight of John (_not_ Mommy) smiling hopefully at him and promptly starts howling again like he'll never stop. Only this time, he's somehow found it in himself to be even _louder_.

John heaves out a sigh and looks desperately around the nursery for a weapon to use against this relentless monster. His sights settles on a panda plushie, a gift from a neighbour he thinks, and he grabs onto it like it's the Holy freaking Grail.

"Hey, look! It's Mr Panda come to play!" John says with painfully false cheer, waving the toy animatedly in front of his bawling son's face. "He wants to see a smile, Sammy!"

To Sam, exhausted and missing his Mommy and only _twelve days old_, the panda looks terrifying. It's big and close and frightening and making his Daddy shout. So Sammy cries harder. And John snaps.

"_Dammit, Sam!_" He roars, a stressful day definitely getting the better of him. "Just shut the hell up and get some freaking sleep!"

It definitely isn't one of John Winchester's proudest moments, hollering at his new born baby son, but he's too tired and wound-up to care.

Naturally, Sam's tantrum goes up a couple of notches.

All of a sudden the room is flooded with the yellowish light of the bulb overhead and John turns around, half-expecting to see an angel come to save his ass from this demon child. Instead, he sees his four-year-old stood there, more asleep than awake, wearing his too-big Batman pyjamas.

"Go back to bed, Dean." John grits out, only willing to deal with one sleepless child at a time.

"Sammy's crying." Dean punctuates with a yawn of his own and plods over to his baby brother's crib, standing on his tiptoes to get a good look. "You shouldn't shout at him when he's crying, Daddy. It makes him scared _and _sad."

John rolls his tired eyes at his oldest boy's earnest lecture. He's not sure whether he ought to be pissed or proud or maybe a bit humiliated that Dean is telling him how to take care of a baby. His _own_ damn baby at that.

He's seen Dean deal with Sam before though and he knows that the brothers already have some sort of brotherly bond going on for them. It's cure really, if a little bit creepy if you really think about it. Like, Dean can tell Mary to make up a bottle five minutes before Sammy even starts showing signs of crying for one. So maybe Dean can be of use now.

"So what _should_ I do, Kiddo?"

Dean rubs the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles and reaches to lift Sam from his crib. His pudgy but expert hands find his brother like two magnets to metal and he hauls him out with a little grunt of effort. It looks precarious to say the least but John doesn't dare stop his oldest.

He watches in disbelieving awe as Dean cuddles Sammy, whispering things to him and pressing kisses to his stubbly head.

Sam stops crying but Dean shows no sign of releasing his precious load.

The big brother's eyes flicker to the discarded panda sprawled limply on the floor, then glare venomously at his father. And John can't help but feel more than a little bit hurt, although admittedly proud, by this whole ordeal.

"Sammy _hates_ Mr Panda, Daddy."

Well, John thinks, of course he does.

* * *

**A/N: **So this will be my first time posting something in chapters on here; wish me luck! I've got all of the other parts written out, I just need to type them up and post them, so let me know if you think this is any good/if it's worth me posting the other parts. The other parts are all unrelated to each other, more like unrelated one-shots that fall into the same category, and will include the following; sad!Sam, angry!Dean, drunk!Sam, sick!Sam and hurt!Dean, all, of course, with John screwing up in some way (or not, for the last one).

Anywhore, thank you very, _very_ much for reading this and please, _please_ let me know what you think! :3


	2. August 21st, 1988

**August 21st, 1988**

"Dad, have you seen Paws?" John's nine-year-old son asks, forcing John's attention away from his celebratory post-hunt beer. "'Cause Sammy and me can't find it."

"_Him_." A small voice chips in indignantly, high-pitched in a way that only a toddler can muster. "Paws is a _him_, Dean. Not an _it_."

John puts the cool bottle down and looks at his two sons; Dean's stood in the doorway to the living room of their latest apartment with a rather distressed looking five-year-old at his side. Sammy's eyes are shimmering hazardously with the threat of tears and John can only guess that his youngest's upset is being caused by whatever it is that Dean can't find.

He smiles warmly at his boys and sits up straighter in the battered old armchair. It would be fair to say that, all in all, he's in a rather good mood. He just took down a werewolf only last night and managed to pawn some of their old things, mainly Sammy's dog-eared toys, for an extremely fair price.

"Paws?" John tries to think if the name rings any bells. It doesn't. "What's tha-" Sam glares at him, "I mean, who's _he?_" Sam nods his approval at the quick save and John chuckles.

"Paws is my bear, Daddy." Sam says slowly, like he's speaking to a particularly slow and troublesome human being instead of his father. "He's brown an' he's missing an ear." His eyes tear up and he clings urgently to Dean's leg, the older responding by dutifully wrapping an arm around his brother's skinny, shaking shoulders. "And he's _gone!_"

John watches with fondness in his heart as Dean drops to his knees and pulls Sam, now sobbing like a baby, into his arms. Pride strikes up in his soul as his oldest soothes his baby, Dean playing the part that he has no doubt Mary would be if she could be here. He vaguely thinks that, perhaps, he should be where Dean is right now.

He's just about to step in after much mental deliberation when Sammy pulls away, his eyes puffy and red but no longer crying. The poor thing still clutches his big brother's leg as Dean stands though, refusing to lose contact all together.

"Sammy can't sleep without him." Dean explains, his voice soft. "Have you seen him?"

John thinks for a moment and then shakes his head; this is the first he can remember hearing of such an object and he feels sort of ashamed for not knowing of Paws before now.

Dean's shoulders slump in defeat and Sam hides his little face in Dean's jeans, starting to cry again in earnest.

"Can you tell me where you last saw Paws, Sammy?"

He can't quite believe that he's taking this almost as seriously as he would when interviewing someone about a hunt but, well, seeing his youngest cry does that to him. Hell, it does it to anyone who's ever seen the kid so much as pout.

Sammy looks at his daddy with eyes wider (and wetter) than oceans. Then a small hand goes to his chin, cupping it, and he pulls his very best (and rehearsed) 'Thinking Face'. It really is quite adorable, with him gnawing his lower lip and scratching a hand in his unruly hair.

"I left him," Sammy toddles over to the couch and pats one of the cushions victoriously, "right _here!_"

Oh, John thinks. Oh, _fuck_.

Dean sees the sudden oh-crap-I'm-so-screwed look crossing his father's tired face and his eyes widen with grim realisation. Dean quickly goes from looking worried about his brother's lost toy to looking very, _very _angry with John.

"Dad, you didn't…"

"I think I did." The oldest Winchester hisses back, mentally cursing himself. "Sammy, Sport, did Paws have a red ribbon 'round his neck? Tied in a bow?"

"Yep!" Sam nods and beams at John, running to be stood in front of his dad hopefully. His smile kills John. "You seen him?"

"Ah, well, the thing is Kiddo, um, Paws, he, well…" John trails off and looks to Dean for help.

Dean huffs out a sigh of annoyance and traipses over to be stood behind his little brother. Of course he knows Dad must have had his own, perfectly good reasons for throwing out the scruffy little toy but he can't help but wish he hadn't. God knows Sammy won't be able to sleep without the damn thing, thus meaning an unpleasant bout of sleepless nights is on the cards for Dean for the foreseeable.

What makes Dean hate this the most though is that it's making his baby brother _cry_.

"Paws is gone, Sammy." Dean says gently, feeling very much like a doctor delivering the awful news of a dead patient to the family of the deceased. "Dad got rid of him."

Sam takes a minute to wrap his head around the concept of a life without Paws, of Paws without him and then glares mutinously at John. He turns abruptly and starts bawling into Dean, who is already crouched next to him.

The sound of his son's cries is heart-breaking and forms a whirlpool of remorse in John's insides, not helped by the glares his oldest son is shooting him over Sammy's shoulder.

Unsure of what to do next without making matters worse he takes a generous swig of his beer and picks up the television remote. He turns the small box on and flicks restlessly through the limited range of channels, searching for something that Sammy might like as a peace offering.

"How could you, Dad?" Dean snarls, glowering at his father, still hugging his brother tight. "Sammy _loved_ Paws."

At the mention of the beloved bear Sam lets out a particularly horrific sound of despair, something that sounds like the bastard child of fingers on a chalkboard and squealing breaks. The never-ending noise makes John wince into himself.

"Aw, c'mon Sport. Chin up. It's just a teddy bear, Sammy." John's attempts at comfort only cause Sam further distress, his little fists tightening around clumps of Dean's shirt as though he fears losing his big brother too if he lets go. "You're too old for toys anyway. You're six, Sam."

All too sharply the crestfallen boy stops crying, lets go of Dean and sprints to the brothers' shared bedroom at an impressive speed. Leaving a murderous-looking big brother scowling at John.

"What?"

"Sammy's _five_, Dad."

John feels like more than a bit of dick.

* * *

**A/N: **Heya guys! This took longer than I expected for me to put up because I have been without internet connection for this past week due to a dodgy line or something, so sorry about that. I'd just like to take this moment to say; **thank you for the reviews, favourites and follows! **They really do mean a lot to me!

Next chapter will include an upset Sammy, a forgetful Papa Winchester and a subsequently angry Dean.

Thanks for reading this chapter, I hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what you think! :D


	3. June 19th, 1995

**June 19th, 1995**

When John gets back from his journey to Newark, New Jersey, where he went to discuss a rather troublesome wendigo issue with a more experienced hunter, he is met with a sight that both puzzles and confuses him in equal measure. Which is a shame, really, considering meeting up with the other hunter had been something of a 'day off' for him.

Dean is sat dejectedly on the couch, looking so cold and stony that it makes John mentally flinch.

It's late, nearly two in the morning, meaning that Dean should be in bed by now. Sure, he's sixteen and all but whenever he and his brother are sharing a room he always goes to bed, if not to sleep, at the same time as Sammy. Always has done, probably always will do. John thinks it's Dean taking his duty to protect his little brother a little bit too seriously.

In reality it's because Dean likes watching Sammy sleep, in the least creepy way possible. He enjoys seeing how innocent and serene his brother looks when he's dreaming because it reminds him that he's doing his job alright. Not that Dean would ever admit any of that to _anyone_, much less to John.

"What you doing up?" John's voice is gruff and tight with fatigue. "Shouldn't you be playing guard dog?"

"Bite me, Dad." Dean growls back, very much reminding John of aforementioned guard dog and making him smirk. "Just… just _fucking bite me._"

"Hey, watch your tongue with me, boy."

John's more than a little bit taken aback by his, usually loyal, son's greeting. Sure, he might expect it from Sam given his youngest son's recent attitude problems, but Dean?

Dean's always been his father's son, so to speak, much more so than Sam has anyway, so this vicious spite now is an extremely unpleasant shock to John's system. He can't really remember a time that he and Dean have ever properly fallen out; if only he could say the same about his relationship with Sam.

"Where's your brother?" He asks, breaking the bitter and uneasy expanse of silence between them.

"In bed." Dean spits the words like they're dirty, his eyes fixating on John's and full of all the wild wrath of a hurricane. If this wasn't _his_ boy then John might be scared right now. "He'll deny it if you ask him but Sammy _cried _himself to sleep, Dad."

That last word is said with pure resentment.

Things are starting to sort of make sense in the oldest Winchester's head; wherever there's a sad Sam, especially a _crying _Sam, a pissed-off Dean is sure to follow close behind. That still doesn't explain Dean's attitude towards his father though.

Stretching his mouth open in a yawn, John drops his duffle hunting bag by the coatrack and stomps his way haughtily to be stood properly in the living room of this month's apartment. As he gets closer he notices several things. Dean's knife is on the coffee table amid a storm of hacked-out scratches scarred into the pine wood; it's a miracle there's any table left at all.

The other major thing John notices is the three empty beer bottles lulling next to Dean on the couch cushion and a fourth, half-drained one gripped firmly in his son's hand. Dean's eyes are white-hot with unprecedented threat.

Dean isn't just pissed off. Dean is _furious._

More importantly though, something is very wrong with Sammy. It must be bad for Dean to act like this, for him to get _drunk_ whilst on watch. John is sure if he can fix whatever is bugging Sam then Dean will fall into line of his own accord. Or so he hopes, anyway.

"So what's up with the squirt then?" When his oldest just shakes his head ruefully, a bitter smirk on his face, John runs a hand through his hair, knotting it in frustration. He's sure bringing up kids isn't supposed to be this hard. "C'mon, Dean, give me _something_ to work with here!"

"Y'know, Dad, he was searching the crowd for you right until the damn game ended." He shakes his head again, clearly disappointed. "Poor bastard. Just kept on looking."

And then, finally, the penny drops.

Today had been Sam's first ever proper baseball game and John had _promised _in no uncertain terms that he would be in attendance to watch his son's first home run. That promise had made Sam's day. Things have been particularly tense between them lately and this had been John's big chance to strengthen their relationship. But no; he forgot.

"_Shit_."

"Yeah." Dean chokes out a humourless, dark laugh and gulps down a sizable glug of his beer. "I think 'shit' just about covers it. Only just, mind."

"But the hunt, the wendigo-"

"Could have been done over the phone." Dean interjects with a barbed voice, sounding so far from the kid that used to hero-worship John that it physically stings him. "I heard you an' that hunter on the phone. Hell, I even heard _you_ suggest _today _to meet." Dean shakes his head for what feels like the millionth time since the conversation started, taking another generously sized drink from his bottle. John feels like a guilty child facing an angry parent. "Don't know why I didn't say nothing. Guess I thought you remembered after all and you'd be back in time."

"I'll make it up to him." John decides sternly, talking more to himself than to his half-drunk son. He's just not sure how he'll do it though; things he used to do to make the kid smile make him frown nowadays. "He can take first pick of the guns at shooting practice tomorrow."

"Well aren't you Father of the fucking Year."

John wants so badly to punish his son for using _That _tone with him but he can't find it in himself to do so, not without feeling all self-righteous anyway. After all, Dean's simply acting on the one order that overrides all others; _look after Sammy_. That mantra is much a part of the big brother as his DNA is.

"He tried so freaking hard, Dad." Now Dean doesn't sound angry, just utterly gutted for his kid brother. "Kept prattling on about how he was gonna make you proud." Dean finishes the remainder of his beer. "Every other minute he looked around to see if you were there wathcin' him and guess what?" He pauses for effect. "You fucking _weren't._"

Every word digs into John like claws but worse. This pain isn't like anything something supernatural has put him through ever before. This is so much worse.

"Wouldn't talk to me on the way home." Dean continues with a sigh. "Went straight to bed too." His eyes take on a strange shimmer, something akin to sorrow glazing his irises. "Wouldn't even let me near him when he started crying."

"Was he any good?" John tries, hoping that showing an interest now might at least redeem him somewhat in the overprotective big brother's eyes.

Dean tries and fails to bite back a proud smile.

"Sammy was the best player out there. Hit the ball every time."

"At least he had you there, right?" John sounds nervous, hopeful. The tone is foreign in the older hunter's mouth.

Dean shakes his head, setting his completely drained bottle down with his slew of others, the glass clanging softly together. John feels guilt bubble violently in his chest like lava in a volcano threatening to erupt.

"He needed _you_ there." Dean barks, once again reminding John of an overly loyal guard dog. The analogy doesn't seem so funny now, though. "Know why?"

John just shakes his head, almost scared of receiving the answer.

"Because, Dad, Sammy knows _I _love him."

* * *

**A/N: **Again, sorry for the slow update. My internet is still down and I'm posting this from my legal guardian's place of work, where I'm mooching off of their internet. Once again, **thank you very much for the reviews, favourites and follows; they really do mean a lot to me.**

The next part will feature a very drunk Sam, a very guilty Dean and a very angry John. It will hopefully be up on Tuesday, internet connection permitting.

Thank you very much for reading this, I hope you liked it and _**please**_let me know what you think! :D

**P.S. **I'm currently starting work on a chapter-fic for Supernatural, set in early Season One. It's a case-fic where the boys investigate a town called Silent Oak where little girls have started jumping out of windows. The culprit; Peter Pan gone Woman In Black. Or is it? Thoughts? :)


	4. April 5th, 1998

April 5th, 1998

"Hey, go easy on him, Dad. _Please_."

"You crazy?" John snorts in disbelief. "You told me he's rat-assed. You said he's drunk damn near everything."

And Sam has.

That much at least is clear when John steps into Sam's neat little room to be met with the pungent aroma of too much alcohol clinging to the air and the sight of his youngest sobbing in a drunken haze, slumped haphazardly on the bed. So, yes, John gets pretty well that Sam is drunk. What he doesn't get is _why_.

Great, John thinks, just fucking _great._ And just as he thought his evening, night, whatever, couldn't get any worse. First someone hustled _him_ at cards and now this. Obviously someone up there is majorly pissed at him.

"You were meant to be watching him, Dean." John scolds, knowing from past experience that it's always a case of 'it takes two to tango' wherever his boys are concerned. "How the hell could you let him get like this?" He gestures to his youngest, who appears to be experiencing something akin to a mental breakdown. "Look at him, Dean. _How?"_

"Ditched me for some slut."

"_Shut up, Sammy!"_ John and Dean snap in unison, both sending equally chiding stares to the baby of the family. Sam just shrugs it off, carrying on with his meltdown and crying drunkenly to himself.

John turns pointedly at Dean with the expression of a furious father, almost like a lion set to kill whoever dare threaten his young. To his credit, Dean has the good grace to at least look both extremely guilty and extremely sheepish. Too bad for Dean that all of the guilt and sheepishness in the entire damn world couldn't calm John Winchester's wrath right at this moment in time.

"_Dammit, Dean!"_ He yells, not giving two shits that the fury in his voice makes Sam jump where he's flopped, fully-clothed too, on his bed. "Stupid boy! I _trusted _you to look after him, Dean." Dean flinches but says nothing to disagree with his father because, yeah, this kind of is his own fault; if he hadn't ditched Sam for Whatshername down the street then none of this would have happened. "Just… just go to your room. I'll deal with Beer Goggles over here."

Dean nods reluctantly, remorsefully, feeling very much like a failure as a big brother. Previous to this night he had always envisaged a drunken Sam being funny, hilarious even. But when he got in from his date to find the fifteen-year-old keening and puking on the bathroom floor, laughing had been the last thing on his mind.

Shoulders slumping in almighty great defeat, Dean traipses out of the room before turning back to get one last good look at his paralytic little brother. Sam looks to be on the brink of another wave of fresh tears all over again.

Yeah; so not funny. Furthest thing from it.

"Please, Dad. _Please_ go easy on the kid."

"Just get out of my sight before I lose it with you too, _boy_."

And with that, his oldest scurries off with his metaphorical tail between his legs. Even Dean isn't stubborn enough to go against his father in a situation like this.

John huffs out a restless breath and stomps over to Sam's bed, plonking himself down on the edge of it, atop the second-hand sheets. He glares murderously at his little boy, refusing to let his expression soften at the sight of the tears trickling freely down Sam's face. He must teach his son the error of his ways and strike the fear of God into him; it doesn't matter that Sammy might be crying whilst he does it.

"What in the seven fucking hells were you thinking, Samuel?" John grates out, not shouting but using the exact right tone of voice to make Sam flinch at the burning authority held within it. "Just 'cause Dean wasn't there to babysit your sorry ass it doesn't mean you can act like a little shit."

Shakily, Sam pushes himself up on unsteady arms into a sitting position. He starts listing steeply to the left but corrects himself, shaking his head as though doing so might knock some of the booze out of his system.

Finally managing to sit up straight after a generous handful of failed attempts, Sam sets all of his concentration on looking his father directly in the eyes; thankfully, this comes easier than sitting up. He's still crying but John doesn't think Sam is with it enough to either notice or care. Sitting at his full height Sam is on the same level as John and the older can't help but feel a little bit _too _old.

Seriously, though. What the hell happened to that cutesy sweet little kid who used to sit on his daddy's knee and beg for bedtime stories? Now John really wishes he had told those pleaded-for stories instead of leaving them to Dean to tell. No matter what though, Sammy used to always ask John for stories. Until one day, after being brushed off onto Dean one time too many, he just _didn't_.

"I asked you a question, Sam." John demands, eyes alight with the scorching fire of a father's fury. "What. Were. You. _Thinking?_"

"I was thinkin', Dad," Sam slurs, pressing his palms deep into the mattress to keep himself from toppling over onto his side, "I was wonderin' why you hate me so damn much." A tear bleeds out of a hazel-green eye and John has to fight all of his instincts to keep himself from brushing it away; he needs to be tough here. Right? "Why do ya hate me, Daddy? Is it 'cause I killed Mom? Or 'cause I'm too tall and suck at hunting? What'd I do?"

This time, thankfully, Sam lets himself face plant into his bed. He's out like a light, asleep in a whiskey-induced blur. It's probably for the best.

Concerned and rather shocked to say the very least, John rubs his baby boy's shoulder gently. Getting no response he rolls the teen over and sighs, his head swimming. He'll have to get Dean on this, make him have some kind of brotherly pep talk with the little guy; Dean always has handled Sammy better.

John looks at Sammy's tear-stained face, the kid looking troubled even in sleep. Yep, this is definitely a job for Dean to handle.

"Stupid kid."

* * *

**A/N: ** Once again I am coming to you from my aunt's place of work, where I have just exploited her internet access to both post fanfiction and spend money on her credit card; yay me! On a serious note though, thank you very much for reading this chapter and I hope you liked it!

**Thank you very, very much to all of the people who have reviewed/favourited/followed this story so far; it really does mean a lot!**

Next time will bring an absent Dean, a stubborn John and a rather sick Sam. It'll hopefully be up on Thursday.

Once again, thanks for reading, I hope you liked it and _please _let me know what you think! :D


	5. November 30th, 1999

**November 30th, 1999**

John Winchester is tired. Both mentally and physically. _Generally _too.

Sixteen long and hard years and goddamn Yellow Eyes is still fucking out there. That _bastard_ who took his Mary away from him is still alive and very much kicking, probably destroying more families and lives as he goes about his merry fucking way. So John must find him and avenge his fallen wife if it's the last thing he does.

He keeps _that_ thought in mind as his age-worn hands tighten on the truck's steering wheel and his eyes blink back the threat of sleep. He must keep driving on, _must _keep going until he reaches the next deadbeat town that unknowingly requires his services.

He's meeting Dean there. His boy, now a man, took on a solo hunt which, according to his earlier phone call, was a piece of piss and his son should be at the predetermined motel a good handful of hours before John is. He smiles a little, knowing that he has raised the perfect hunter in his eldest.

His _other _son, however, seems to be very much shunning the prospect of living life hunting. Their vicious arguments are becoming far more frequent and their laughs far too scarce.

This journey _alone_ has been hell on earth for John. And, given his job, that's saying something. Sam's been incessantly whining since they left the town of Elkhart, Texas. He's been refusing all offers of food and has been whinging about feeling sick every five damn minutes.

Of course John knows Sam is just being a grouchy little bitch. The kid had made it clear that he liked Elkhart, had made a few good friends at the school there, got on with all his teachers who seemed to think that the sun shone out of his ass, and had wanted to spend Christmas there. The argument that had ensued this very morning when he'd found John packing their bags had been _cataclysmic_, even by their standards.

A groan plucks John from his thoughts and he turns to see Sam looking out of the grimy windscreen with hollow eyes, his face a little bit _too _pale and his lips trembling weakly. Another groan has Sam curling in on himself pitifully, like he's trying to hide from the pain. The kid's a good actor; John has to give him that.

"Sam?" He tries, deciding that they should at least _try_ to hash this mess out before they meet up with Dean and rain on the older brother's victory parade. "You gonna stop making your face look like an ass or are you set on being pissy forever?"

Okay, maybe not exactly the best thing to say here.

Sam just writhes in his seat, either ignoring John or deaf to his words, his breathing becoming ragged and choppy. Looking at his son's dull eyes John notices a slight redness to the white of them and, for the first time in six hours, he wonders if maybe, just _maybe_, Sam really _is_ sick.

No. He can't be. This is all just some juvenile little act to trick into John feeling guilty; it _has_ to be. And it's not about to work. No way.

"Sam?" John tries again, turning off the hazy buzz of the radio. "Talk to me. That's an _order_."

"Feel sick." The teenager murmurs in response, sounding more like a sick six-year-old than a strong six_teen_-year-old. "Real sick, Dad."

The addressed just rolls his eyes and slams his boot-clad foot down harder on the accelerator. Sam is _really_ getting on the tattered remains of his last precious nerve right now. Tearing it to shreds and wearing it as a beret, in fact.

"Get over it, Samuel."

John focusses the entirety of his attention on the fast darkening highway. He can remember a long ago time when Sammy thought it was his daddy who made the sun shine and the stars twinkle but that waslong ago. _Too long_. It doesn't stop John from wishing that then was now, though.

He knows, deep down, that he holds some of the blame for their currently frayed relationship, but his blessed Winchester pride won't let him accept it. If only Sam was more obedient, more of a hunter, more like _Dean,_ then everything would be hunky fucking dory.

Yeah, John thinks, why can't Sam be more like Dean?

And he immediately hates himself for thinking it. But that doesn't make it any less true to him.

Sam lets out a strangled cry of pain so sincere that it moves John to pull over his vehicle. He's not sure whether he's pulling over to enable him to comfort his boy or to punish him.

"_God_." The kid groans, voice low and clogged with a massive blot of agony.

As soon as the truck is stationary, Sam opens his door and flings himself out onto the dusty dirt track of the layby. John follows, sprinting around the side of the truck to be by Sammy's side.

He's met with sight of Sam on his shaky hands and knees, retching as though he's trying to puke up an entire lung. Within a heartbeat he's kneeling next to his sick son's side, ignoring the crushing guilt in favour of aiding the vomiting teenager.

Wincing as Sam finishes his horrendous heaving, leaving a rather impressive amount of puke for a kid who only eats lettuce half the time, John places a soothing hand on the kid's quaking back. God, Sam looks like shit.

The hand is swiftly and violently shrugged off.

"Sammy?" John whispers, _hoping_ the shake was due to fever or something out of his little big boy's control. "You alright, Kiddo?"

Pushing away from his father's attempts of help with impressive strength for a sick guy, Sam struggles to his feet. He's shaky, pale and exhausted-looking; John doesn't think he's ever felt so goddamn guilty. Sam turns on his dad, looking at the man with pure disdain.

"_Fuck. You._"

John sighs, running a hand through his hair. _God_, he wishes Dean were here to deal with this.

* * *

**A/N: **The lovely and beautiful people of TalkTalk have managed to fix my internet connection so today I am coming to you from the desk in my bedroom. Yay!

**Thank you very much for all of the reviews/favourites/follows; you guys are too kind!**

So this is the last chapter of John screwing up, aka this fic's penultimate chapter. Next time will see a seriously injured Dean, a scared Sam and a, for once, fatherly John. Once this fic is done I'm going to start posting a chapter case fic, set early in season one where kids are dying and Sam is having trouble getting over Jess' death. I've already written the first three chapters of it! :D

Anywhore, thank you very much for reading my crap, I hope you liked it and **please let me know what you think! :3**


	6. December 24th, 1999

**December 24th, 1999**

"He'll be alright, Sammy."

All three Winchester men are gathered in a cramped hospital room, the pulsating _beepbeepbeep_ of machinery burning deep into their brains. Sam and John are sat in the too-hard plastic chairs.

Dean is the one in the bed.

It was a 'simple' salt and burn gone wrong and a vengeful spirit had seen fit to throw Dean out of a bedroom window. The damn thing didn't even have the common courtesy to open the glass panes before tossing the kid out. Honestly, _some people_.

Three broken ribs, a broken leg, a sprained wrist, a concussion and numerous lacerations were the spirit's parting gifts to Dean. Really he was lucky; a fall like his could have easily been fatal. Probably would've been if years of hunting hadn't made his body steel-like in its ability to handle danger.

To be quite frank John is just as worried about Sam as he is about Dean right now. The kid is shaking, his face is impossibly pale and his hazel eyes are haunted and huge with the ever-present threat of tears. Sam was the one who had found his big brother and, John knows, had first thought him to be dead.

John looks at his sons' interlinked hands and smiles softly, in a bittersweet sort of way. Looks like he'll have to take care of Sammy on Dean's unconscious behalf right now. God knows all three of them need him to.

"I don't want him to die, Dad." Sam, no; _Sammy_ whimpers. It breaks John's icy, hard heart to hear the raw terror and anguish behind the words. "He's my big brother."

"Kiddo, Dean's not gonna die. You heard the doc. He'll be right as rain in no ti-"

"Not what I meant." Sam interrupts, voice trembling with emotion. John gestures for his youngest to elaborate. "I mean, the stuff we do, _hunting_, it's dangerous. I don't want Dean to die." He takes in a deep breath, his words running away from him. "_Ever_."

"Oh." And that's all John can think to say.

How the hell is he supposed to respond to that? What they do _is _dangerous and John isn't naïve enough to think that he can protect is boys forever from all that is out there, no matter how badly he wants to. He can't honestly look Sammy in the eyes here and tell him that his big brother won't die at the hands of a hunt because, most likely, Dean will.

But then, looking at his youngest son's lost and desperate face, he realises something; Sammy doesn't _want_ honesty. He wants comfort and reassurance and his _father_. He _needs_ it.

"You're my boys and we save people, son." John declares, allowing his pride to bleed into his words like honey. He wraps an arm around his boy and Sam doesn't stop him. "You know what we have that other hunters don't?"

Sam shakes his head, hanging on his father's every word just like when he was just a little kid. John smiles at the thought; _this _is his Sammy.

"We have each other."

John takes a moment to wonder when the hell he became a fucking philosopher but then swiftly decides that it doesn't matter. Sammy seems to be buying this bullshit and that's all that both of them really needs or wants right now.

John gives his boy a brusque squeeze and casts his gaze to Dean, quietly thinking that the twenty-year-old would approve of him showing his nearly non-existent caring side right now.

"It's Christmas Eve, Dad." There are tears in the boy, no, in the _man's_ voice and eyes. "_Christmas fucking Eve_. And we're in a goddamn hospital!"

John lets his son be angry. He knows that Sammy needs it right now. He understands that.

"I know it sucks, Sam." He says after a short while, making an effort to keep his voice both sincere and gentle. "But think about all the people out there; the men and the women and the _children_ who we've saved. They wouldn't be waking up to Christmas tomorrow morning if it wasn't for us."

Sam nods and says nothing because, for blessed once, he can't find anything to say that conflicts with his father's words. In fact, he agrees with the man on this one.

Saving people, hunting things; it's what they do, it's what they've been doing ever since Sammy can remember. He might not always like the 'hunting things' part of it all that much but the 'saving people'? He prides himself in it, relishes it.

Sam looks up at the annoyingly loud clock hanging haphazardly above his big brother's bed. It's midnight.

"Hey Dad?"

"Yeah Sammy?"

"Merry Christmas."

* * *

**A/N: **So that's it. It's over. **Woohoo!**

This is my first story on here that's been posted in chapters so it feels really awesome to have seen it through, even though I know it isn't amazing. **Thank you so, sooooooo much to all of the people who have read, reviewed, favourited and followed this story; you guys are the best!**

So yeah. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it; please let me know what you think! :D

**P.S. **As I have previously mentioned, my next story will be a chapter case-fic set early season one, which sees the boys investigating the deaths of eight kids in a town called Silent Oak, all whilst Sam struggles dealing with Jess' death (there will be lost of brotherly schmoop). Hopefully, I'll have the first chapter up soon but I'm trying to complete a rough draft of the whole thing before I start posting. Anywhore, time to end my shameless self-promotion here.

**Thanks for reading 'Five Times John Screwed Up and One Time He Didn't'! **


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